Mohammed Hanif - Our Lady of Alice Bhatti

The double door closes behind Sister Alice with a discreet, expensive VIP click. A blast from the heavy-duty air conditioner hits her in the face and she smells roses. Later she will count eight bouquets of different sizes. There is the strong smell of coffee cake and green tea. She takes in the patient, a fat old woman with pink cheeks and silver-grey hair, the kind who is always described as a grand old lady, defying disease, her upper half covered in a two-coloured shatoosh shawl. Alice was once told by a transfer prisoner in the Borstal that these shawls cost as much as a two-bedroom house. A sandwich nibbled delicately at the edges sits on the bedside table on a huge china plate.

Two men, their ages indistinguishable and relationship unclear — they could have been thirty or fifty, brothers or uncle and nephew — are sitting in the lounge area, taking little sips from their cups and playing a quiet game of poker. The place is set for three people but the third position is empty, and they take turns playing for the absent player. Some old-money family tradition, she thinks. They look at Alice and nod with indifferent politeness. Their faces are puffy; too many late nights and fading illusions of power. The rustle of a fresh thousand-rupee note is the only sound in the room. Death watch indeed, Alice Bhatti thinks.

She looks at the bedside chart, fiddles with the IV, looks under the bed for a pan. The attendants play with quiet intensity, as if following an old family ritual, as if their mother’s life, or auspicious end, depends on the result of this game of cards. CNN plays on a small television. Wolf Blitzer promises to be back in a minute. Fashion models from a developing African country wearing bras made of coconut shells and elephant bones walk down a ramp. Alice Bhatti sits down on the bedside chair and wonders about this woman’s life. Her vitals are fine but there is impending renal failure. Periodic blood transfusions will keep her alive but she’ll have to go in the end. She has probably had the kind of life that induces people at funerals to shake their heads approvingly and say, “What a fulfilled life”, in tones of mock envy usually reserved for lavish weddings and fanciful birthday parties. Two fat sons at the table, an army of guards outside and a naughtily named vehicle is enough proof of a life well lived. But there is probably more: vaults full of jewels and immaculate wills drawn up by family lawyers. A paid obituary will appear in the papers with a long list of mourners at the end, a list so distinguished that the newspaper will refuse to charge for the advert.

Wolf Blitzer, as he had promised, comes back asking in a voice full of television despair: “Can we really cut a good deal with the bad guys? Which way is it going to go?”

Alice Bhatti notices that the younger man, the clean-shaven one, is restless now. He is not even concentrating on his cards and he pushes his stack of notes absent-mindedly towards his senior partner. He is imagining me naked, Alice thinks. It never ceases to amaze her that men, even those on death watch, all think the same thing. One eye on the dying mother, the other on the paramedic’s tits. She is relieved that at least it doesn’t matter whether you are doing your duty in the filthy general ward or in a VIP room, some of the rules are the same. She feels at home for the first time. She allows herself a little smile.

Sister Hina Alvi had explained to her in one of her lectures: “They are grieving, they want to cling to someone, they want to cling to life. They want to be comforted. And your job, indeed your challenge, is to comfort them without canoodling them. Some mix up the two and bring a bad name to our profession. That’s why when your average man hears the word ‘Sister’, he gets an erection.”

The younger one clears his throat and says, “Can we have some cake, please?” Alice is amused at the fact that these people can’t tell the difference between a nurse and their personal maid. Old families treat everyone like a servant. She puts on a smile, slices a thick wedge, puts it on a plate and plonks it on the table. As she turns to go, Junior stops her. “Pick up a card, please.” Alice hesitates for a moment, then bends down and picks up a card from the deck. In that instant she can feel Junior’s gaze piercing through to her cleavage. She hands him the card and in turn he picks up a thousand-rupee note from the table and waves it in front of her. “Here, you have won.” Alice doesn’t mind accepting little gifts from her patients and their carers, but nobody has ever offered her a thousand-rupee note. “I am not allowed to play cards while on duty,” she says, and turns to go back to her seat. Then she looks back and says, “But thank you.” She doesn’t want to offend them.

She sits on the chair and is wondering if she should ask them to change the channel when Junior points towards the TV and asks, “OK if I turn up the volume?” Alice gives a confused nod. He gets up, finds the remote and turns up the volume. Wolf Blitzer is still not sure which way it’s going to go but has moved on to the bad deals that all the good guys have been getting.

Junior comes and stands close to Alice, so close that his crotch is practically in her face. The smell of sweet perfume is so overwhelming that she has to hold her breath in order to stop herself from sneezing. She tries to stand up. He pins her down with one hand and pulls out a revolver from under his shirt, then stands there with a blank face as if he has forgotten what he was planning to do. “Suck,” he says in a low voice, as if asking for another slice of cake, waving his revolver towards his crotch.

Alice Bhatti realises that all her struggles and dreams will die in this VIP room. She wonders if Sister Hina Alvi or Dr Pereira know anything about this family tradition. She fears that if she resists she’ll end up back in the Borstal. This time for life, probably. “What?” she says, still not quite able to believe the suggestion. His shalwar is around his ankles now and a flaccid piece of cold meat grazes her cheek. She feels a wave of nausea rising from the pit of her stomach and clenches her throat muscles. She doesn’t want to throw up in front of a patient. The barrel of the pistol hits her face and a bit of vomit spurts out of her mouth.

“Do you really have to?” Senior speaks in an exhausted voice from his chair.

This gives Junior another idea, and he says to Senior, “I can’t. Not in front of you.”

“OK. I’ll go for a walk,” Senior says in a voice full of protective concern. “But for God’s sake don’t wake up Qaz.”

As the door clicks shut, Alice is slapped again, hard. She still thinks she hasn’t done anything to deserve this, but she has made up her mind to go through with it. There is, however, nothing to suck at. Her tormentor is still flaccid. He seems intent on doing something that his body has no desire to do. With her eyes shut, Alice reaches out, takes it in her left hand, and pumps her fist a few times. As soon as it stiffens, Junior’s hand gripping her shoulder goes limp, as if the rush of blood to his groin has made him weak and light-headed. With one hand still on his penis, Alice reaches with the other into her coat pocket and only looks up when she hears him scream. She is careful and steps out of the way of the tiny shower of blood that has erupted from his penis.

Junior tries to straighten his revolver first, then drops it on the floor and begins to weep. Sister Alice puts the razor blade in the fold of a paper napkin, then puts it in a little plastic bag, seals it and chucks it in the waste bin.

“Go to Accidents. And no need to be shy, they get lots of this sort of thing during their night shift.” Before leaving the room, she turns around and says, “And stop screaming. You’ll wake Begum Qaz.”